The Fisher King
by Graveygraves
Summary: How do people deal with the aftermarth of such a personal case? Originally a one-shot, but I have been challenged to do some extra chapters for other characters, there will now be one chapter for each team member.
1. Gideon

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**So I thought it was time to give Gideon another shot (this is only the second time I have tried writing him as I find his character very intimidating). The quote that prompted this is from the first Part of 'The Fisher King' storyline (Series 1 Episode 22).**

**. . .**

**Prompt**

**Gideon:** That cabin was the only thing I had left.

. . .

The drive out had been long and Jason was felling weary. During the whole of the journey his mind hadn't stopped whirring and now he was reaching the crescendo that would send him over the brink into the headache from hell. He needed this, the rest, yet as he followed the familiar dirt track down to his isolated cabin, dread was filling his stomach to the stage that nausea was peaking alongside the throb in his temples.

Slowing as the stonework of the porch came into view; Jason parked up and stared at the favoured building. He sat, unable to move, as his mind replayed that last time he was here. How he had stood on that very doorstep, gun drawn ready as he waited for an explanation for the interruption to his break. The unexpected gift that had shattered his solace as he open the cardboard box to the horrors it held.

It wasn't that he wasn't use to seeing such things; unfortunately they were a too familiar part of his life. Body parts had become part of the jigsaw puzzle that he examined and analyses for hidden clues to the type of person they were hunting. It wasn't that he had become blasé about such things; rather he had learnt to process them as part of the bigger picture. He tried hard not to dwell on them, to personalise them, which was easier if they were feature less parts. He knew he had to dehumanise them the same way the killers they sought out did.

After, once their work was done, that was when he allowed himself the time to consider the human cost of the cases they dealt with. As he completed his books and journals, recording the losses and those they saved. If he hadn't learnt such ways he would never have been able to return to the Bureau.

However this was different. This had attacked him in the one place he felt safe. Out here he was away from the horrors that ruled his life. This had become part of his strategy, his way to deal with what the team witnessed. It was a simple process, but one that was working for him. During the case he remained focused and driven, once it was complete he would stay at work and allow his mind to mull over the case and to complete his paperwork – both professional and personal, and then he would leave for his retreat. Even if it was only for one night he would escape and regroup, ready to return and start a fresh.

That was until today. Sat in the darkness, he stared at the building he had considered his saviour; this had been all he had left. Pure and untouched by his vile life, the cabin had saved him. But now he could see it was tainted and no amount of whitewash would cover it up.

Slowly opening the door to his vehicle, Jason got out and made his way towards the wooden door. His fingers fumbled with the keys as he approached. Slotting it, with some trepidation, into the lock, he turned the key and pushed the door open. Yet he remained on the door step, frozen as he looked into the black abyss of his beloved cabin.

Flicking a switch, Jason finally entered, placing his bag carefully on the couch he made a beeline for the fire place, hoping that adding some physical warmth might reincarnate the mental warmth he usually felt when here.

As he made the logs roar into life he, Jason sat down on the floor, gazing intently at the dancing flames and they licked across the dry surfaces of the wood. His mind elsewhere as his body absorbed the heat from the fire.

Sat there for literally hours, Jason did not move a muscle as he contemplated all that had happened since he was here last. The team had been violated. Each and every one of them had had their personal lives racked over and exposed. They had found out things about each other that they never knew and, in his opinion, had no business knowing. They were a team; they relied on each other in the field. They trusted each other, but they didn't need to know each other inside out.

Some it had hit harder than others.

He felt sorry for Reid. Maybe it was because he felt a special bond with the young genius or just because his family had been dragged into this whole event. Jason had been aware of Spencer Reid's background, after all he had encouraged the young man to join the bureau and had hand-picked him from the academy. He knew of his mother's condition. Jason also knew how he had kept that secret from his colleagues, not wishing to add anything else to the long list of fault he felt he displayed.

It must have been hard for him to confide in Garcia, to let his instinct to protect his mother over ride his wish to keep her secret. He had seen the physical pain etched on Reid's face as he had battled his personal demons in front of everyone.

Then there was Elle. The personal sacrifice she had made for his mistake. He had made the call to go to the press, he had broken the rules and Elle had paid the price. And that price had been high, nearly costing her life. How could he have lived on with the knowledge that he had caused another's death?

Though Jason knew he wasn't the only one to feel the guilt of Elle's injuries. He had seen the slump of Hotch's shoulders as he had left, and though he didn't know for sure he suspected he knew what Hotch was doing this evening. And it wasn't spending the time at home with his family.

Rising from the floor Jason made his way through to the kitchen, opening a bottle of expensive red wine, he left it to breathe as he found a glass and removed his coat. The cabin was starting to feel warmer. He had no idea how long he had sat there or what hour of the night it was. Time was insignificant now.

Pouring the wine into the large glass he returned to the couch and the well established fire. Adding to the logs and building the flames before he settled Jason let the flickering amber hues encase him into a trace once more.

Somehow he knew he had to shift the memory of his last visit to the cabin, if he didn't he would never be able to rest here again. He would have lost his only solace.

. . .

"I find a certain degree of loneliness not only tolerable but deeply pleasurable."  
**Allen Shawn****, American Composer**


	2. Elle

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**So this was originally a one-shot but after a suggestion from Sue1313 I have decided to do some additional chapters. Each chapter focuses on a specific character's response to the events. This chapter is dedicated to Elle. I will state now this is the first time I have ever written Elle and I have never personally liked her character (don't hate me for that). So this was a real challenge.**

**I am currently expecting and due any day so will write/update the other chapters as and when I can. Sorry I don't normally write like this but I couldn't say no too some additional chapters.  
**

**. . .**

The beeps and various mechanical sounds were the loudest sounds within the room; however they faded into the background compared to the various voices that filtered through the mix of dreams and nightmares that filled her mind's eye.

It was becoming increasingly hard to sort the truth from fiction. Elle recognised the various tones of her colleagues as they came and went, talking to her about anything and everything. She even thought she heard an apology or two from Hotch, in one dream she heard the same words from Gideon – surely they were both altered forms of reality?

Morgan, she heard a lot from Morgan, his voice was there the most. Other then when the others sent him away for a break, so that they were left alone with her. Garcia babbled her way through the silence, JJ said little but Elle could feel her touch, the way she squeezed her hand willing her to wake up. Reid, she hadn't heard from Reid. He probably found it too hard to face her like this, Elle thought to herself. Or knowing him he was there but too awkward to say anything.

Trying to focus on the voices she knew were real Elle willed her eyes to open and her mind to release her from this living nightmare.

She no longer wanted to remember the feel of the bullet entering her. Wanting to rid herself of the sensation of the repeated penetration of his fingers as he retrieved the blood to write on the wall. Elle didn't want to rerun the moment of seeing those letters form in front of her. 'RULES', she wasn't even sure what the rules were any longer.

She had been so tired that everything leading up to this moment was a blur. One minute she had been on vacation in paradise and the next she was being dragged through a long a torturous hell.

And where was she now? She was stuck in limbo, a realm between the living colleagues that surrounded her and supported her and the dead that tried to reason with her.

Screwing her eyes up before she blinked to try and focus; Elle slowly open her eyes. She was staring up at the sterile white ceiling of her hospital room and was glad to realise she was finally alone. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Morgan's attempts to engage her in conversation. She had to admit that, even in her dreamlike state, he had managed to make her lips curl into a brief smile a couple of times with his corny humour. Well at least in her head he had, she assumed her body hadn't reflected the responses her unconscious mind was showing.

She felt guilty about the relief she felt at waking up when there was no-one here to appreciate it but right now she needed to be alone.

The combination of the drugs and the general lethargic feeling of the slow start of her recovery had knocked Elle down to her lowest, and she was more than aware of that. She knew that dragging herself back out of this personal abyss was going to be hard work and right now she still wasn't sure she should bother. Maybe she should just shut her eyes again and drift away, join her father in a safer place.

But Elle couldn't do that, she had never been a slacker; she had never backed down from a fight, even when she knew she should have. Once she had the bit between her teeth and she had convinced herself she was right then there was no stopping her. It was partly what had got Elle where she was. Grit and determination helped her succeed in a male dominated career.

But it had also got her exactly where she was today. Lying in a hospital bed with umpteen tubes and wires attached. Elle could have done anything with her life that she set her mind too, but she had chosen to follow her father's footsteps. It was her way to honour him, and to make amends for the dishonour she had shown him the day he died. Yet again there was a sign of her temper and stubbornness getting the better of her.

Letting out a huge sigh Elle shut her eyes, willing her mind to rest and receive the sleep her body so desired. Who would ever have thought that being unconscious was such a tiring thing? She thought of the victims she had accompanied to hospital and how at peace they had looked, assuming that unconsciousness was a blessing compared to facing what had been done to them.

However now she knew the truth, the turmoil your mind created when you had lost control over your thoughts. With her eyes shut she was too close to being back there. Back in the room with him – the man who had tried to kill her. Or at least that was what she had assumed he had tried to do. Had he wanted her dead or just to use her to get his message across? Somehow she didn't know which was worse.

Lying blankly, unmoving, her narcotic fuddled brain tried to process all that had happened. She felt violated, abused and used. Nausea rose though her, but Elle couldn't distinguish whether it was caused by the drugs or emotions. Trying hard to sit upright, to clear the rising panic as she knew she was about to vomit. The piercing sound of the alarm; that was triggered by her alert state, was responsible for bringing nurses to her side, each one trying to calm her.

Settling back on the fluffed up pillows, tears streaked down her cheeks. Was this it was she finally awake – or was it yet another tormented dream?

. . .

The greatest healing therapy is friendship and love.  
**Hubert H. Humphrey**


	3. Hotch

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**Hotch's turn – and I am really looking forward to this as I think I found his response to the events the most interesting during the episode. The more I watch the early episodes I realise so much more about Hotch and he really has started to interest me more. Not sure this reflects that as I found it harder to write then I thought – or what I wrote hasn't lived up to what I had in mind.**

**. . .**

Tearing down the yellow crime scene tape and letting it fall to the ground Hotch let himself into the house. He was determined that, when the time came, Elle would not be returning to a crime scene but to her home. Though in his heart he knew there was nothing he could do to remove the memories for her. What he was to do was superficial in comparison to the deeper impact.

This didn't need to be done now. With her injuries it would be a while before Elle could leave the hospital, but Hotch could not leave it another minute. He needed to be here and he needed to do this. He could profess it was all for Elle's sake, but you didn't need to be a profiler to know that this was as much about finding his own personal therapy for the situation as it was to make things liveable for Elle.

Dropping his dark suit jacket from his shoulders, he hung it over the back of a chair, before removing his tie and placing it the side pocket of his jacket. As he slowly rolled his sleeves up he stared at the single word scrawled across the stark white wall. Closing his eyes as his head dropped, he tried to imagine what it had been like for Elle. Had she been conscious enough to process what was happening? Had she seen the letters form into a word? Had she felt each intrusion into her body?

Hotch couldn't imagine what she had gone through, and personally he didn't want to. What she had experienced no-one should have had to face. To make her own emergency call, she had to have been aware of what was happening and that sent a shiver down his spine.

Stepping away, each footstep echoing through the empty house, Hotch busied himself finding cleaning products and getting a bucket of water ready to clean away the evidence of her torture. In no time he was back and face to face with the word that meant so much.

It wasn't the first time he had received a message written in blood during a case, it was something he had seen other killers do either during or even before the team were involved. And he assumed it would not be the last. It was a chilling way to get the message across and one that definitely couldn't be ignored. Yet it was the first time he had known the owner of the blood. It was the first time he felt personally responsible for the actions of the UnSub and his attack. He had done this.

Obviously Hotch hadn't personally stood over Elle's injured body, collected the blood and written the word himself, but he may have well done. How was she ever to trust him again after this?

Scrubbing at the unforgiving red letters, Hotch worked hard to try and make them disappear as he inwardly prayed he had done so much differently over the past few days.

He could have left Elle and let her sleep in the office, what harm could it have done? Less than sending her home that was for sure. He could have brought her home himself. The drive probably would have done him good too. If he had brought her home, he would never let her enter the house alone. He would have ensured she was safe. Hell, then Randall Garner could have taken on him instead of Elle. He should never have assumed that Anderson had the same standards as him. He should have made it clear that he expected him to see her home safely. He should have spelt out exactly what that meant. Being caught up in everything else he had allowed his thought process to be clouded, he had failed by assuming rather than being clear and precise.

It wasn't that he doubted Elle's capabilities as an agent – he knew she was more than capable of defending herself, he had seen it first hand, if she had been awake and fully functioning. However no-one could be expected to be alert and ready after all she had gone through from the start of the case. She was sleep deprived and one edge.

As the darkened ruby red faded though his repeated rubbing, as the stressed muscles his arms ached at the effort he was exerting, Hotch was disappointed by the lack relief he was gaining from the action. He had hoped that the combination of the physical activity with the mental exhaustion would enable his mind to gain perspective.

Maybe he was gaining insight, maybe now he was realising the full extent of his guilt. If he processed the evidence as a prosecutor it was all stacking up against him. First he sent Elle home, with the knowledge that Randall Garner had all of their personal details and was watching their responses. Second he did not ensure her safety by briefing Anderson fully. Third he had allowed Gideon to push JJ into making a press release, which was blatantly against the rules.

He was guilty as charged and no jury would claim anything else.

The word may be fading but his guilt wasn't, as the dirty water ran down his arm, tainting the sleeve of his pristine white shirt a pinkish colour, Hotch was not about to relent. He had already decided he would be back tomorrow to repaint the wall as the shadow of the lettering was not leaving.

His guilt was going to be no easier to wash away then the letters he had worked so hard on. He wouldn't be able to whitewash over his feelings the way he could paint over this mess in the morning. The weight of his emotions lay heavily on his shoulders as he leant forward onto the wet wall. Supporting himself as he rested his forehead on his arm against the wall before he turned around and slid down to the floor. Sat in the small puddle of water formed at the base of the area he had been working in – his own discomfort mild in comparison to that of Elle and the rest of his team.

And that was the problem that faced him now, Hotch thought as his head lolled back and his hand finally released the bloodied cloth he had been cleaning with, allowing it to splat onto the hard wood floor.

Hotch had to put his own thoughts aside, to come to terms with them in his own time. He had to be there for his team to rally them and bring them back round, pulling them back together and rebuilding their trust in each other and more importantly in him. Decisions had been made, rightly or wrongly, that would impact on the team for the rest of their lives.

. . .

You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.  
**Abraham Lincoln**


	4. Reid

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**Now for some Reid – personal favourite of mine, hopefully I will do him some justice. Plus there will now be a chapter for each character as soon as I can (blame nebula2 - I do).  
**

**. . .**

Sat in the arm chair near the bottom of his mother's bed, Spencer watched her now sleeping peacefully having returned to personal surrounding at Bennington Sanitarium. The flight home had been difficult to say the least, even within the comforts of being allowed to use the 'company jet'. He had tried every possible trick he could think of; reading her favourite books, talking about anything to distract, fitting into her fantasy of being a lecturer once more, even resorting to the mild sedatives her doctor had prescribed. But nothing had calmed her troubled mind as she fought to control her fear of flying. He hated that she had had to suffer in such a way because of him.

Spencer didn't like to think to hard about how Hotch had managed to secure the jet to fly them home. He was just grateful that he did as the thought of a commercial flight with his mother was not something he wished to consider. The looks and staring and whispered words – it would have been too much for either of them to endure.

In fact right now he didn't like to think about any of his team. He just wanted to focus on his Mom and how she had been dragged kicking and screaming, quite literally if the reports of her flight to Quantico were to be believed, into his cruel world.

Of course Diana Reid knew all about what Spencer did, she didn't necessarily always agree with it, that depended on her mood and the course of drugs and treatment she was following at the time. However she knew, and currently he was viewed as a white knight in shining armour out to rescue the damsels in distress. Spence snorted back laughter at such a ridiculous notion. He, Dr Spencer Reid, the scrawny kid who's never ending knowledge seemed to get him into more trouble than it was worth as a heroic knight from one of his mother's preferred medieval stories. Chaucer would have definitely enjoyed the parody of that tale.

Spence was more than aware that his body was finally craving sleep but was reluctant to leave her side and settle on the couch. He knew it would be marginally more comfortable then his mother's favoured chair, yet he wanted to be as close to her as he could. As if by shadowing her through the night he could protect her from the nightmares that plagued him.

Twisting and turning in a vain attempt to find some acceptable form of comfort, Spencer finally stretched out his lanky legs and rested his head backwards, his arms folding across his body trapping the blanket he had found to cover himself. His eyes fluttering shut as he begun to lose the battle against sleep. He would be happy to just sit guard over his mother all night.

Spencer saw little purpose in attempting sleep, as he knew it would be restless. It bothered him greatly that someone could use his mother in such a way, and with that on his mind he was unlikely to settle peacefully.

Obviously all patients in Bennington were there for a reason and Randall Garner was no exception. He was blatantly mentally unstable, yet he had taken advantage of his mother's naivety and nature. He had befriended her and listened to her heroic tales, twisting them to his own advantage.

Spencer had secured a place here for his mother for her safety. All he had ever wanted was to protect her from the cruel world that she struggled to understand. Here she was to be free of others torment and abuse, yet still she had been violated. Her mind and her thoughts used against her and his team - manipulating them all to his will.

As his eyes finally closed, his mind continued to whir, recounting the incidents of the last few days and their impact on his family and his friends.

If they were lucky then his Mom would be oblivious to this all, there was so much she forgot, harking back to her memories from way back over more recent events. This would probably end up as something that she struggled to sort into real or imaginary and in the end she would not bother to label it but discard it alongside other things she failed to understand. Spencer felt that process had already begun in the way she had retreated into the safety of her past life before they left Quantico, her own form of self-defence.

However he still had to come to terms with what had happened and having to reveal this part of his life to all of the team. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his Mom, it was just he found it easier not to talk about it. After all he found it hard enough relating to others without throwing in additional facts such as 'my mother's a paranoid schizophrenic which is a genetically transferrable condition'. Add another reason to dislike the weird kid!

Not that he truly believed any of the team would hold it against him, but it had to alter the way they viewed him surely. Already he had seen the looks of pity and sympathy before he had left; he just hoped that the questioning wouldn't start on his return. Or that they wouldn't start to watch him for signs, analysing all he said and did. For once he had found a group of people that had accepted him for who he was. Okay they would tease him, but equally they would support and encourage him. They appreciated what he did well and that was not something he was accustom too. Spencer didn't want to lose now that he had it.

As his restless mind flitted to each of his colleagues he began to mull over the personal impact on each of them. Each of the team had been targeted in some way. For him he had faced a direct attach on his only family, for Gideon his sanctuary had been invaded, Elle had suffered physically at the hands of Randall Garner, it was obvious to all that Hotch was blaming himself for the attack on Elle, alongside Morgan who felt he should have been able to protect his partner in some way, Garcia was beside herself with guilt at the thought that she had been the one that allowed Randall access to their files and JJ had had her past ransacked the way many of them had to create clues.

They had all been pawns in this particular game of chess, and although they had won the game, the victory seemed somewhat hollow after all they had gone through.

. . .

A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother's love endures through all.  
**Washington Irving, Author**


	5. Garcia

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**Okay thanks to nebula2 I have been persuaded to carry on for each of the characters and couldn't resist Garcia next. Morgan and JJ are proving to be a bit harder but I do have an idea for each and so I will give it a go.**

**. . .**

Bustling through her front door, muttering a few obscenities along the way, sparkling oversized purse in one hand, laptop bag over her shoulder and collection of groceries cuddled to her hip in a brown paper bag, Penelope let it all land in an heap on her dining table. As she looked at the cluttered mess she had just created she sighed deeply, before turning to shut her front door with a little more force then she intended.

Returning to the heap, Penelope collected up the groceries and took them through to the kitchen. She placed the bottle of wine straight into the fridge to cool, the dark chocolate was left out on the side and finally the tub of ice-cream was pulled out as she grabbed a spoon and made her way towards her couch.

She flopped down and opened the tub, immediately she went in for the first scoop savouring the mouthful as she let her head flop back, the cold substance started melting and sliding down her throat. She needed this tonight, something guilty and sinful that might help purge her soul of the real issue that was plaguing her conscious.

Realising that this would not give her the solace she desire Penelope got up from the comfort of her couch. She went over a grabbed her fuchsia pink laptop bag and brought the offending item back with her. She had never in all of her life hated one of her babies the way she did right now. Though to say she hated what she knew was an inanimate object was really a cover for the way she felt about her own stupidity.

When it came to all things technical Penelope had always prided herself on her abilities and general savvy attitude. She had only been seriously caught out once in her life, and lucky for her the powers that be had decided it was best to channel her skills rather than punish them. From Hacker to tech analysis, she had created a stir in either role.

However in one simple step her bubble had been well and truly burst this week, and in doing so she had not only made a fool of herself but let down her friends and colleagues in the process - so much so that their lives had been risked. For that she was wracked with guilt.

Trying not to cry, again, Penelope rolled her eyes skyward, to hold back the tears, before looking back at the screen. Digging in for some more scoops she contemplated what she was to do. She still couldn't believe her own ignorance. Her work system was among the most secure in the world, secretly she liked to think the most secure, but she was willing to admit there may be one or two that would give her a run for her money. It was definitely the most secure in the building, there was no way she would trust her babies to the standard FBI firewalls and security. Oh no, Penelope Garcia had her own system within the system, no one got anything from her hard drive without her knowing.

That was until she recklessly used her own laptop in work. How could she have let her personal laptop's security become so flimsy? She was a professional hacker, yet her own equipment wouldn't give a Freshman a challenge right now. She had left herself wide open to this and all for a few fleeting moments pleasure on her breaks.

Starting the laptop up, her fingers tapped nimbly across the keys working quickly to delete all traces of Sir Kneighf before installing and updating the necessary files and programmes to make sure she, and her family, was never left so exposed again. Placing the laptop down on the coffee table she watched as it did as she had commanded it, while Penelope continued to consume the tub of double choc chip.

Penelope knew this would not make things better, that she was not making amends for what had happened. This wouldn't speed Elle's recovery, or help rid Hotch of his guilt. Nor would it stop Reid worrying for his Mom or give Gideon back his peace of mind. Randall Garner had violated her in one of the worst ways she thought possible. He had attacked her in the one place she felt totally secure and then used that to get at her friends one by one. She had left her family exposed to all forms of abuse and misuse.

Yet by doing this she was at least doing something, as there was nothing else she could do right now to make any of it better. Not that it would stop her trying, and Penelope vowed to continue to try for the rest of her life. She would win back Gideon's respect and Hotch's trust. She would prove to Reid that she was a friend and that he was right to trust her with his secret. As for Elle, she would be by her bedside first thing tomorrow and be ready to do whatever Elle so desired to make things more comfortable for her.

Leaving the laptop running, Penelope tidied away the remains of the ice-cream tub as it was now starting to make her feel sick. Returning Penelope turned off the lights. She slouched back on the couch in the dark, her feet curled up by her as pulled the deep purple throw over her. Sitting in the silence she finally let the tears flow, the sobs shaking her body as she let her emotions run free. Every ounce of guilt, anger and disappointment merging and pouring out of her as she tried to come to terms with everything that had happened.

As the laptop slowed its chain of data and commands, it flicked itself off to restart. Penelope waited then shut it down, her tears had now stopped running down her make-up streaked face. Once that was done she got up, still wrapped in the silky throw and made her way towards her bathroom.

In the small room she turned the hot tap on fully and begun lighting candles, pouring a large glug of fragrant bubble bath into the tub, she begun to strip her make-up from her face and her clothes from her body. Feeling all the better for ridding herself of the tarnished reminders of the events. Stepping into the hot bubble filled tub, Penelope sunk down, letting the heat radiate through her body. Now it was time for her to reboot, and once she had recalibrated her systems she would be ready to face the team and prove herself once more.

. . .

Guilt is anger directed at ourselves - at what we did or did not do.

**Peter McWilliams, writer and publisher of self-help books.**


	6. JJ

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**Sorry it has been so long since I updated. However I feel I have a good excuse, having given birth to a beautiful (okay I'm biased) baby girl, my life it a little hectic to say the least. This was why I was only going to do one-shots! However I am determined to carry on and will get the last chapters to you as soon as possible.**

**I am a little on the sleep deprived side of sanity so please excuse the mistakes and I will not be offended if you want to point any out for me to correct.**

**. . .**

JJ didn't know why she had volunteered to stay and clear room but she had. It was obvious how everyone was feeling at the end of the case, and doing this offered her some sort of closure. Success on this occasion had brought little relief to any of them. JJ wasn't sure how long it would take for each of them to recover from the impact of such a personal case. Somehow she felt the need to continue to work after the others had left. For some reason JJ felt guilty as she hadn't been as affected as deeply as many of the team. Compared too many she had got off lightly and watching the other suffer was heartbreaking. JJ had hated seeing the slumped shoulders of her colleagues as they had left.

She wiped down the boards positioned around the edge of the room, removing Reid's familiar scrawl ready to receive whatever came their way next. Something she didn't want to think about right now. In fact, taking a moment to pray in silence, JJ begged the Lord that they would have the respite to recover before they had to face the fray again. Taking the harshest of UnSubs was their way of life, but it had never been as close to home as it was now.

Turning from the now clean boards, the pens and board rubber neatly stored away, JJ began that task of gathering everything together. The table was covered with evidence, files and photos. They all had reports to complete and would probably need to make reference to this collection in doing so, though she suspected most details were permanently burnt into the minds of the team. Each of the objects they had received was already stored in the perfect protection of clear evidence bags. Holding the framed butterfly for a moment longer the necessary JJ considered the innocence of her childhood that it represented. Dropping into the nearby swivel chair, her fingers slowly traced the edge of the thick frame through the plastic. JJ had never honestly known what she wanted to do as a child, other than play soccer; she contemplated as she leant back in the chair, lost in her own thoughts. Everything had been so simple back then. Her parents had done all they could for her and her sister. They had wanted them to thrive and do their best. JJ had felt encouraged in anything and everything she had attempted. They had allowed her to explore and try new things and supported her with anything she felt she wanted to pursue.

Her butterfly collection, now that had been her mother's idea. It was something JJ's mother had done and JJ always felt that her Mom had encouraged her own collection as a way to bond with her overtly 'Tom-boyish' daughter. Smiling she remembered the time they had spent together, casually chatting as they had worked together.

That was until her sister had died. That day a dark blanket had laid itself over the household, never to be lifted again. It was then that JJ had realised what she was going to do with her future. It was that day the frivolity stopped. It was that day that JJ had packed away the butterflies and everything else that no longer had a place in her life. JJ had dealt with her sister's death in the only way she knew possible, she had upped her focus, becoming increasingly hard on herself as she strived to complete all she needed to get where she wanted.

Standing JJ carefully placed the frame into an open cardboard box, filling it with some of the other clues the team had received; Gideon's baseball card, Reid's key. On top of those she gathered piles of pre-sorted photos. Those she had organised as she had removed them from the boards. Then she scanned the others scattered across the surface, casually gathering together those that needed to be kept together.

As her fingers skimmed the surfaces of each image, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Staying had not answered the questions that tumbled around in her head. She may not be a profiler like the others, but she had a certain understanding of human behaviour, she had to to be able to her job. And, as with anything she had set her mind to, JJ was certain she did it well. However she was struggling to understand what sort of person could do this to them, the effort he had gone to, the planning, the deaths of those who met his needs, Elle!

Pulling the crime scene photos from Elle's house towards her, JJ felt the guilt wash over her. There she was proud of the job she did, until she had caused her colleague's near death. She had never regretted standing in front of the cameras as much as she did now. Looking at the blood stained message she hung her head in shame. Her conscious trying to reason that she was only following instructions, she had been given a job to do and she had done it to the best of her abilities, maybe even a little too well.

Gathering the offending photos into a file and dropping them into the box JJ wished she could clear her head as easily as she was clearing the desk. If only she was capable of collecting it all up and boxing it away instead of letting it get to her, slowly eating away at her soul.

For the first time since joining the bureau JJ questioned her decision. Would she end up old and jaded like Gideon? Would she come close to losing her life like Elle? Would the responsibilities of her choices weigh her down the way they did Hotch? Placing the lid on the box, she made the decision that the rest would wait until morning, right now she needed to get away from this place.

. . .

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.

**Robert Frost****, poet**


	7. Morgan

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**So I thought it was time to give Gideon another shot (this is only the second time I have tried writing him as I find his character very intimidating). The quote that prompted this is from the first Part of 'The Fisher King' storyline (Series 1 Episode 22).**

**. . .**

**Prompt**

**Gideon:** That cabin was the only thing I had left.

. . .

The drive out had been long and Jason was felling weary. During the whole of the journey his mind hadn't stopped whirring and now he was reaching the crescendo that would send him over the brink into the headache from hell. He needed this, the rest, yet as he followed the familiar dirt track down to his isolated cabin, dread was filling his stomach to the stage that nausea was peaking alongside the throb in his temples.

Slowing as the stonework of the porch came into view; Jason parked up and stared at the favoured building. He sat, unable to move, as his mind replayed that last time he was here. How he had stood on that very doorstep, gun drawn ready as he waited for an explanation for the interruption to his break. The unexpected gift that had shattered his solace as he open the cardboard box to the horrors it held.

It wasn't that he wasn't use to seeing such things; unfortunately they were a too familiar part of his life. Body parts had become part of the jigsaw puzzle that he examined and analyses for hidden clues to the type of person they were hunting. It wasn't that he had become blasé about such things; rather he had learnt to process them as part of the bigger picture. He tried hard not to dwell on them, to personalise them, which was easier if they were feature less parts. He knew he had to dehumanise them the same way the killers they sought out did.

After, once their work was done, that was when he allowed himself the time to consider the human cost of the cases they dealt with. As he completed his books and journals, recording the losses and those they saved. If he hadn't learnt such ways he would never have been able to return to the Bureau.

However this was different. This had attacked him in the one place he felt safe. Out here he was away from the horrors that ruled his life. This had become part of his strategy, his way to deal with what the team witnessed. It was a simple process, but one that was working for him. During the case he remained focused and driven, once it was complete he would stay at work and allow his mind to mull over the case and to complete his paperwork – both professional and personal, and then he would leave for his retreat. Even if it was only for one night he would escape and regroup, ready to return and start a fresh.

That was until today. Sat in the darkness, he stared at the building he had considered his saviour; this had been all he had left. Pure and untouched by his vile life, the cabin had saved him. But now he could see it was tainted and no amount of whitewash would cover it up.

Slowly opening the door to his vehicle, Jason got out and made his way towards the wooden door. His fingers fumbled with the keys as he approached. Slotting it, with some trepidation, into the lock, he turned the key and pushed the door open. Yet he remained on the door step, frozen as he looked into the black abyss of his beloved cabin.

Flicking a switch, Jason finally entered, placing his bag carefully on the couch he made a beeline for the fire place, hoping that adding some physical warmth might reincarnate the mental warmth he usually felt when here.

As he made the logs roar into life he, Jason sat down on the floor, gazing intently at the dancing flames and they licked across the dry surfaces of the wood. His mind elsewhere as his body absorbed the heat from the fire.

Sat there for literally hours, Jason did not move a muscle as he contemplated all that had happened since he was here last. The team had been violated. Each and every one of them had had their personal lives racked over and exposed. They had found out things about each other that they never knew and, in his opinion, had no business knowing. They were a team; they relied on each other in the field. They trusted each other, but they didn't need to know each other inside out.

Some it had hit harder than others.

He felt sorry for Reid. Maybe it was because he felt a special bond with the young genius or just because his family had been dragged into this whole event. Jason had been aware of Spencer Reid's background, after all he had encouraged the young man to join the bureau and had hand-picked him from the academy. He knew of his mother's condition. Jason also knew how he had kept that secret from his colleagues, not wishing to add anything else to the long list of fault he felt he displayed.

It must have been hard for him to confide in Garcia, to let his instinct to protect his mother over ride his wish to keep her secret. He had seen the physical pain etched on Reid's face as he had battled his personal demons in front of everyone.

Then there was Elle. The personal sacrifice she had made for his mistake. He had made the call to go to the press, he had broken the rules and Elle had paid the price. And that price had been high, nearly costing her life. How could he have lived on with the knowledge that he had caused another's death?

Though Jason knew he wasn't the only one to feel the guilt of Elle's injuries. He had seen the slump of Hotch's shoulders as he had left, and though he didn't know for sure he suspected he knew what Hotch was doing this evening. And it wasn't spending the time at home with his family.

Rising from the floor Jason made his way through to the kitchen, opening a bottle of expensive red wine, he left it to breathe as he found a glass and removed his coat. The cabin was starting to feel warmer. He had no idea how long he had sat there or what hour of the night it was. Time was insignificant now.

Pouring the wine into the large glass he returned to the couch and the well established fire. Adding to the logs and building the flames before he settled Jason let the flickering amber hues encase him into a trace once more.

Somehow he knew he had to shift the memory of his last visit to the cabin, if he didn't he would never be able to rest here again. He would have lost his only solace.

. . .

"I find a certain degree of loneliness not only tolerable but deeply pleasurable."  
**Allen Shawn****, American Composer**


	8. Anderson

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**This is a special request from nebula2 (I am going to learn not to listen to her one day). This is another first for me as I have never written Anderson before.**

**. . .**

The bar was rather dark and dingy, not the sort of place he would normally frequent. No, he was a bit more of a sports bar kind of guy - a few beers with his pals over a game. Somewhere bright and lively and decorated with the colours and equipment of various sporting activities and teams. That was much more Anderson's idea of a bar then this stinking pit. However somehow this seemed more appropriate and its dire atmosphere matched his mood. Plus he really didn't want company tonight and no-one here was likely to know him.

He realised his behaviour could be interpreted as running away, and to be honest he was hiding. Hiding from the very people that would find it easy to analyse what he was doing, so this seemed a safe place as he couldn't imagine anyone looking for him in the dull corner of the shabby bar. He mindlessly picked at the deep scratch gouged into the bar surface, head down as he contemplated all that had brought him here.

"Wanna 'nuther?" the gruff bar tender asked, throwing the grubby towel he had been drying his hands on over his broad shoulder. One look at the guy and you knew no matter how rough the costumers got there would be no trouble in this bar. The man was so big he made Morgan look skinny. That plus the fact that a large baseball bat was openly housed on the back counter and it wasn't there as some sporty decoration, rather as a deterrent. Anderson had no doubt that the barman would use it to keep the peace if necessary.

Anderson nodded his consent for another drink and he threw more money on to the bar; "Keep them coming."

That was the one thing Anderson was certain of tonight, his intention to obliterate it all with copious amounts of alcohol. Not that getting drunk was his normal style either, but then it hadn't been his average week.

Another short plain glass was dropped on to the surface in front of him, he watched as the amber liquid swished around inside, finally settling before Anderson took a swift gulp. He no longer felt the burn as it travelled down his throat. He had consumed enough to numb him physically if not mentally. He hadn't had that much, yet, but soon would if the growing fluffiness in his head was anything to go by.

Finishing the shot in another gulp, he held the glass up for a refill. Waiting silently, he was in no hurry.

As the large man hovered over him with the bottle, Anderson held the glass as its contents was replenished. The fiery spirit splashed as it hit the bottom and sides, whisky was not his drink of choice but as with everything it seemed appropriate. He could imagine Aaron Hotchner contemplating the day with a fine malt, or Morgan knocking back bourbon.

"Rough day at the bank?" Clyde, the bar tender, asked by way of making conversation with his newest patron. This place was quiet and Anderson guessed that he was the type of man that wanted to know what brought people his way. After all it wasn't the décor that attracted customers in.

Glancing down at his dull grey suit, Anderson guessed he looked as much like a banker as he did a FBI agent. Nodding he replied "Something like that."

Clyde tipped the bottle, making the shot a double, before walking away.

'Bad day' Anderson considered it for a moment. He had successfully managed to leave a fellow agent in peril, a situation that nearly cost her life. In doing so he had infuriated Aaron Hotchner and his elite BAU team. Somehow 'bad day' didn't begin to cover it.

Twirling the glass slowly in his hand, Anderson watched the patterns made by the whisky. The way it would rise and fall with the movement was hypnotic. This time he savoured the smell and the taste, slowing his pace.

All he ever wanted to do was his job, to the best of his ability. He admired Aaron Hotchner; he aspired to be him one day. He had the finest qualities; strength, clarity, leadership. The man demanded respect, but rightfully so; he earned that respect in everything he did.

Anderson admitted he worked hard to get himself noticed. He wanted to be seen to do his job well. He wanted his potential to be appreciated. He had no intention of staying where his was for the life of his career. He wanted to hold the title 'Supervisory Special Agent', even 'Unit Chief' one day.

What had happened this week was not going to help him with any of those dreams. It would take a lot of work to be remembered for anything else other then 'the agent who had left Greenaway to be attacked.'

Hanging his head in shame, he listened to his inner voice, was he really more concerned about his own career then the life of a fellow agent? Sipping the liquid, Anderson closed his eyes, picturing the scene he had returned to. A fully fledged crime scene had greeted him. Yellow tape marked off the area that swarmed with the activity of various officials processing the evidence.

Downing the rest of the whisky, Anderson shook his head; he wasn't use to being on the front line. It had shocked him more than he had realised. His mind muddled as he tried to make sense of what he was feeling. The alcohol swirled the emotions in his head; guilt, remorse, shame.

Standing, he gathered up the last of the money he has placed on the bar. Sitting here getting drunk wasn't giving him the answers he needed; maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. Heading towards the door, with the slightest of staggers, Anderson left the dark bar and went out into the night.

. . .

Confusion of goals and perfection of means seems, in my opinion, to characterize our age.  
**Albert Einstein, Physicist**


	9. Understanding

**The Fisher King**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.**

**Okay so this chapter is a bit of a wildcard, and an idea from MaryEllen1960. I'm not going to say any more other then I hope it works. **

**. . .**

The beep of the alarm connected to his CCTV system woke Gideon from another night's fitful sleep, which he had fallen into on the couch in his cabin. Without thinking his hand reached for his gun as he moved from the lounge area through to the kitchen. Pulling open the cupboard door that housed the monitor for his CCTV feed, Jason's mind raced as it relived the nightmare of his last visit to the cabin and the special delivery he had received.

Though this time it wasn't a delivery van he saw making its way down the long dirt track, this time it was a familiar dark SUV. He put his gun away and sighed deeply, this was the last thing he needed right now.

Making his way towards his front door, Jason got ready to greet his unwanted guest. Though he was determined the front door was as far as he would get, if he even got that far. Opening the heavy wooden door, Jason stood solidly in the doorway. His crossed arms and stance made it clear what he was thinking as he watched the fellow veteran get down from his vehicle.

"You could at least pretend to be happy to see me," the man said as he reached into the passenger side to grab two brown paper bottle shaped bags off the seat.

Jason glanced around the peaceful surroundings before settling his glare back on the intruder; this was his solace, his safe place. He did not appreciate it being shattered by others, even those who were familiar to him. He chose who and when this was shared with others.

David Rossi stepped up onto the cabin porch, smiling broadly, his open body language a sharp contrast to that of Gideon's.

"I think we should have a little chat, don't you?"

"No," Jason answered honestly and shut the door firmly.

David knocked the door, "I don't give up that easily and you know it," he called through the solid wood, more than willing to wait this out. After all since retiring he had little else to do. His days were filled with researching, writing, editing, the odd meeting or call with his agent. Of course there were the book tours and various events to attend. So this was a rare but worthwhile adventure.

Jason opened the door once more, silently studying the ex-profiler, before he stepped back allowing him entrance.

David stepped inside, walking confidently towards the couch in the centre of the open plan living area. Carefully he placed the scrunched up bags down on the table; the gentle clink of glass on glass could be heard. Bi-passing a seat, Dave made for the fire as he busied himself coaxing it back into life.

Jason followed him, watching his casual actions, the Italian ex-agent making himself at home despite the frosty reception.

"Please do make yourself at home," Jason mumbled as he returned to his space on the coach.

"Thank you I will," Dave continued, knowing his actions were antagonising his ex-colleague. Dave had always known how to press Gideon's buttons and today was no different. Dave made his way through to the kitchen and returned with a glass tumbler. Placing it down on the coffee table he pulled the bottle of malt whisky out of a bag and poured himself a shot. "I realise you won't appreciate this, however I am certain you will appreciate this." David pulled out the bottle of fine Italian red wine from his personal collection and offered it to Jason.

"I'm perfectly happy with the bottle I have, thank you," Jason commented, having no wish to flatter Dave by accepting what he knew was an enjoyable and expensive wine. Just like his ex-colleague Jason had fine tastes, and they both knew it was one thing they had in common.

Dave shrugged, placing the bottle down before he sat in a wide comfy arm chair by the now roaring open fire.

"David, what are you doing here?"

"Well as you know, I have open access to the BAU case files to aid my writing, seems the FBI enjoys my celebrity even if I don't," he smiled weakly, as if to help explain the unprecedented access he was granted.

"I have told you before I am not willing to help with your book writing," Jason slowly and deliberately reached forward to pour himself a glass of wine, "So feel free to finish your drink and leave."

"Ah Jason, this time I am here to help you," Dave levelled his gaze on Jason, as he waited for the other man to have the decency to look at him, "I think the fallout from your recent case has huge implications and it concerns me. I've been to see Hotch, he's, how shall I put it, finding a way to deal with his issues. I thought I would pay you the same courtesy."

"My understanding was that you only had access to the cases you had worked on."

"I like to stay in touch with what is going on, see what I am missing out on," Dave smirked, finishing the last of the drink he had poured and reaching forward to get himself another, "So Jason is this how you plan to deal with it? Hide out here until it all goes away? Did you learn nothing from your last little 'episode'?"

Jason struggled to remain calm, his patience was wearing thin. He had not asked Rossi up here and did not appreciate his intrusion into his personal time. He was dealing with it just like the others in the team would, in their own way.

"I have strategies in place to help me deal with the harder elements of the job," Jason spoke flatly; "it is part of the conditions to my return to the BAU. How about you Dave? Is writing the therapy you hoped for or do you still drown your demons before bed each night?"

"Touché, but I didn't come up here to compare notes on which is the best recovery programme for old and jaded FBI agents. Jason listen to me please, or I swear you will be out of the game again within months. If you can't keep your head together this will bury you and it is hard work digging your way out. I know as I still ache from the efforts."

Jason looked away, rubbing his face. Deep down he knew Dave was talking sense; he just wasn't ready to hear it. He was back in the BAU, he had overcome his issues. He was doing the only thing he knew how; profiling was his life, his soul.

"I've read the reports that have been filed so far," Dave continued, "This case was all very personal. This guy must have got under everyone's skin. Then there is the blame game, I know Hotch is ready to take the fall for what happened to Agent Greenaway, but we both know the decision that caused it wasn't his."

"He sent her home,"

"You ordered the press conference. We both know sending her home didn't break the rules."

Dave let his words settle between them. This wasn't easy for Gideon, he knew that. No-one liked to admit they made a mistake, let alone one that nearly cost a fellow agent there life. Dave had to admit to himself that he had made decision that maybe, in hindsight, weren't the best. Images of Ruby Ridge flashed through his mind, but even then he could justify his choice, though he was also willing to apologise for the outcome.

"I think you should go now," Jason spoke as he stood, making his way towards the door.

Dave nodded his head as he accepted he had pushed Gideon as far as he was going to. Placing his untouched drink down on the table Dave made his way towards the door. As he did he turned to face Jason; "Don't let it bury you, get out before it is too late. This job will destroy you if you are not careful."

. . .

Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them.  
**Bruce Lee, actor**


End file.
